Our Father Was an Unreliable Tourist

How it begins

Their father had never visited the cathedral, according to the woman who sold tickets, and Simon took this personally.

“He described the south window.”

“The south window was installed in 2008.”

“He came in 1981.”

“Then he couldn't have described it.”

Julia bought two tickets before her brother could argue with the building.

Outside, rain gathered in the folds of their father's itinerary. He had written it in a red notebook, adding stars beside places he said had changed his life. There were fourteen stars. They had been traveling for two days and had already disproved three.

“People get dates wrong,” Simon said.

“He got an entire window wrong.”

“You always do this.”

Julia looked at him.

“Notice windows?”

“Make everything smaller.”

Inside, the cathedral smelled of damp coats and candle wax. Simon walked ahead, carrying the notebook like a document under appeal.

Their father had told the story of this trip at birthdays, weddings, and once during a power cut. He had slept in stations, eaten impossible meals, met a man who changed his understanding of courage.

He had never named the man.

A guide approached while Julia examined a photograph near the entrance.

“Looking for something?”

She showed him the itinerary.

He read the first page, then the name on the cover.

“Arthur Reed?”

“You knew him?”

“Not from here.”

Simon turned.

The guide pointed through the window toward a low building beyond the car park.

“He used to take someone there.”

“What is it?”

“Was a rehabilitation center. Flats now.”

Rain blurred the building's pale walls.

Simon closed the notebook.

“Our father was on a walking tour.”

The guide nodded with the tact of a person who had learned not to argue with families.

“Perhaps,” he said. “But every Wednesday for six months, he took the number nine bus.”

Julia looked at the fourteen stars.

None marked the building across the car park.